


A Brief Introduction to Modern Romanticism

by stellaviatorii



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Awkward Flirting, Canon Disabled Character, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Charles in a Wheelchair, Erik has Issues, F/F, Female Character of Color, Gen, M/M, Male Character of Color, Misgendering, Misunderstandings, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, Past Drug Use, Recreational Drug Use, Trans Erik, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character, Trans Raven
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-13 09:25:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7971709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellaviatorii/pseuds/stellaviatorii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the things Charles expected during his shift that afternoon, Erik was not among them. The following two weeks made him think the universe had decided to throw all the rules out the window and blow him for good measure.</p><p>
  <b>** ON INDEFINITE HIATUS **</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flirting 101

**Author's Note:**

> **update** : this fic is on indefinite hiatus. one day I'll return to it, since I have the entire plot figured out, but for now I'm focusing on other things.

"I'm sorry, you want to have _what_ written on your cake?”

 

The customer flashed a sharp grin. “ _You’re dead to me._ All caps. In red, if possible.”

 

Well, then.

 

Charles bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing as he tapped out the order. He’d been working at the college bakery for close to a year now and this wasn’t the strangest thing to ever be requested. It was, however, the first time someone this gorgeous was asking for a homicidal dessert. “And the delivery address?”

 

“It’s for Emma Frost.”

 

Charles raised an eyebrow. “Really?” He’d heard of the infamously hard to please calculus TA from a melee of Yik Yak posts and overheard grumblings, but he didn’t realise she was bad enough to warrant an anonymous hate cake. Usually that was reserved for Trask in anthropology; the number of times Charles had iced ‘ _Suck my cock, Bolivar!_ ’ had been growing exponentially since the Professor came back from break.

 

The customer tilted his head. “Will that be a problem?” he asked, pale eyes lit with humour. Warmed molasses curling low in his stomach, Charles leaned forward in his chair and laughed. _Two can play at that game_.

 

“Not at all, unless you plan on making it literal. I’d be obliged to call campus security if I find out.” He rang up the purchase, sneaking in a staff discount. If it got him laid, Moira could take the missing cash out of his paycheck.

 

“Don’t worry,” the customer replied lightly as he counted out the necessarily bills with long, dark fingers. “You won’t.” He slid the exact amount across the counter and tucked his wallet back a jeans pocket Charles desperately wanted to shove his own hand down. “Thanks for your help, _Charles_ ,” he said with a glance at Charles’ name-tag.

 

Charles licked his lips and went in for the money shot - a demure glance from eyes a past girlfriend had called the most charming set in the tri-state area. “My pleasure, Mr…?”

 

An odd expression flickered over the customer’s face before it settled into a broad, genuine smile. “Lehnsherr,” he stated. “But call me Erik.”

 

And then, without so much as a goodbye, he spun on his heel and left.

 

* * *

 

 

 Raven, by virtue of being a part-time student, was already sipping some behemoth mug of tea and flicking through an old edition of the National Geographic by the time Charles had finished his shift and arrived back to their ground-floor apartment. She glanced up as he flung his scarf on the couch with an exasperated sigh. “Hey, grumpy. Bad day?”

 

Charles wheeled over to her seat and stole a mouthful of tea - green, too bitter for his tastes. She snatched the cup back as he announced, a touch forlorn, “I think I hit on a straight guy. Again.”

 

Raven made a sympathetic sound and patted his arm. “We’ve all been there, honey.” She paused. “Did you pull that ‘we evolved from single-celled organisms’ schtick?”

 

“Didn’t have the chance,” Charles mumbled, face planted against her shoulder.

 

“Good.”

 

Charles pulled away with an offended scowl. “Kick a man while he’s down,” he sighed and pushed away from her to make a proper cup of tea. “How was your day?”

 

“The usual,” she shrugged. “Made that HRT appointment for next month. Got a call from Mom - she wants us to haul ass back to Westchester for the holidays.” Charles winced over the kettle. “Finally got in touch with my partner for that French project. Out of all the people, of course I get paired with the guy who never checks his messages.”

 

“Not everyone is glued to Facebook like you, Raven.”

 

“They should be,” she sniffed. “We’d be halfway done by now if he bothered to turn his notifications on. And, fuck, you know what’s the icing on the cake? After I outlined my ideas, he just sent back ‘k’! What kind of douchebag sends ‘k’?”

 

“Don’t know,” he said, but before Raven could elaborate he jumped tracks. “I _was_ flirting, though. Put on the charm and everything. Maybe he was just shy? Maybe he’s new to the whole - no, no, I definitely got the ‘no homo’ vibe. Which is a bloody shame, considering-”

 

A cushion, previously resting beside Raven’s hip, collided with Charles’ head. “Hey, genius, we’re talking about _my_ boy drama here.”

 

Charles clutched the pillow to his chest and sighed. “You aren’t trying to get into your French partners’ pants, though. Are you?”

 

“Nuh-uh. This guy is so anal-retentive, it’d be like sticking my dick in a drywall.” Raven placed her magazine on the coffee table and fixed her brother with one of those vaguely reptilian stares she usually reserved for his bigger mistakes. “Alright, I’ll bite. Tell me about him.”

 

Charles’ eyes glazed over. “Oh, God, Raven, he’s _perfect_.”

 

“You said that about a twinkie last week. Details, Chuck.”

 

Taking a moment to wrinkle his nose at the nickname, he attempted to visualise Erik in his minds’ eye. “Taller than me, of course. The most gorgeous dimples and an arse you could bounce a penny off. Probably an art major judging from that horrific turtleneck he was wearing. Some kind of European accent - Polish, maybe?”

 

“Right,” Raven raised an eyebrow, “So, not Polish.”

 

“I just said - !”

 

“Charles, you thought Angel was Mexican for a year.”

 

“I - well -” Charles spluttered. “She wished me a good cinco de mayo!”

 

“She was fucking with you.”

 

“But -”

 

“Anyway,” Raven interrupted, laughing at the embarrassed pink flush splotching Charles’ cheeks. “Does this not-Polish guy have a name?”

 

Charles’ mouth was curling around the first syllables of Erik’s name when Raven’s phone gave a sudden violent trill. She immediately scooped it out of her pocket, face pinched. After a moment her expression cleared and she mouthed “Irene” in Charles’ direction. Irene Adler was the vice president of the Columbia queer society, a dainty powerhouse that Raven had a long-standing crush on. Not that she would admit it, of course; she was remarkably tight-lipped about the things she wanted.

 

Charles, on the other hand, was not. They may not be blood related, but he and Raven were as as dynamic as siblings, their personalities shifting and mirroring through the years. Despite the polite and charming veneer, Charles was two drinks away from talking dirty to the first pretty thing he saw. At Harvard it wasn’t an issue aside from the bi-monthly STI check, but since being shot by his lab partner during his graduation ceremony - _long story_ \- the pickings were slim of his own accord. Raven called it a trauma response. Charles told her to fuck off.

 

“Yeah, yeah, we’ll definitely be there,” Raven practically hollered down the phone, startling Charles. From the muffled sounds of it, Irene was calling from a party. Or an orgy. It could be either with her. “Hellfire on Broadway, right? Great! Sounds perfect. I - oh,” she pouted, “she hung up on me.”

 

“Don’t look too deeply into it, dear.”

 

Raven scoffed. “Says hypocrite of the year, Charles Xavier.”

 

“Just because I can’t follow it doesn’t mean I’m unaware of good advice,” Charles replied breezily. “What’s this about Hellfire? Did Irene find a nest of Republicans?”

 

“Thankfully the opposite. The gay bar on Broadway is having a trivia night next Friday to raise money for the local HIV centre.” She stood and dumped the dregs of her tea in the sink. “Don’t worry, it’s accessible.”

 

“And you assumed I’m coming?”

  
“Charles,” Raven chuckled, “You don’t have a life. Of course you’re coming.”


	2. Intermediate Propositioning

Sunday - the one day Charles didn’t have lectures or work or any responsibilities of any kind beyond putting out a tin of cat food for the neighbourhood strays - was promptly ruined by a very pointed text alert at 7am.

 

_MOIRA_

_Sean’s in the hospital again. Can you cover his shift?_

 

He pressed his face into his pillow and sighed, pretending for just a moment that he wasn’t about to be a good person.

 

_CHARLES_

_Absolutely. Is he alright?_

 

_MOIRA_

_Thanks Charles x_

_It’s just a few fractures. He took something last night and believed he could fly._

 

Though they’d only met a handful of times, Sean’s escapades blanketed Charles’ Facebook feed. The adult in him wanted to warn the kid against posting half-naked bong selfies - the rest of him craved a pinch of green and a loose night that didn’t end in an awkward conversation about whether or not he could get it up. Something stronger would be preferable, but he’d broken that promise to himself far too many times to warrant another exception.

 

Still, he always thought he was a better lay on a few pills and a shot of tequila.

 

It took close to an hour for Charles to get to campus, the accessible buses not running as frequently on a sleepy Sunday. By the time one ambled to his stop it had started to rain - light, nothing to complain about, filed away for the inevitable small talk he’d have to make all day. It was either discussing the weather or contemplative silence for Charles in customer service. _And flirting_ , he admitted to himself. _Or at least attempts thereof._

 

He’d deliberately avoided thinking about Erik since the topic was dropped last night. Attraction was a fickle thing; if he mulled on their encounter any more a whole fantasy would have been constructed in Charles’ mind, imaginary conversations spinning themselves into the impression of a relationship. But, Christ, it was so easy to picture himself pressed to Erik’s side, lips flush against his warm bronzed skin. He would put good money on Erik being a cuddler. It was always the stoic ones.

 

Charles indulged himself as the bus rounded to the university with the phantom of seeing Erik smile again, of being the reason he was smiling. There was a twang somewhere below his sternum at the thought, old and familiar and all too obvious a deterrent: _you’re obsessed with an idea, not a person_.

 

But he never claimed to be a saint.

 

By the time he’d made his way across campus to the bakery, Charles had managed to outline and completely destroy a dozen pick up lines. Fishing the backdoor keys from his bag, he figured he was doing a rather good job of it all, in fact: as long as he didn’t see Erik again any time soon, he would get over this crush like a flash in the pan.

 

“Charles?”

 

Bugger.

 

“Oh! Ah -”

 

“It’s Erik,” he reminded. _As if I could forget the name attached to those lips_ , Charles thought weakly. He was dressed similarly to yesterday, the only change being the abrupt appearance of his collarbones thanks to a very much appreciated vee-neck. But this was not helping. At all. Why was he still staring?

 

“Yes, Erik, hello! I’m just,” Charles gestured to the door, dropping his keys in the process, _shit_ , “opening up. Obviously. You could probably gather that.” _Shut up, shut up, shut up!_ “I trust your night was pleasant?” _Fuck_.

 

Erik shrugged and picked up the keys. “It was fine,” he said, pressing the bundle into Charles’ proffered hand. Christ, his skin was warm. Goosebumps flushed over Charles’ arms.

 

“Splendid,” he replied, reaching for jovial but sounding like he was choking on his own tongue. Thankfully he didn’t stumble with the keys, and soon enough he and Erik were disturbing the air of the bakery, Charles immediately wheeling to the counter to check the register. Petty cash untouched, brilliant. No one would bother with robbing this tiny place when Starbucks was right across the square, but it was still reassuring to see each wilted bill.

 

He began reloading the display cases with their weekend stock, which kept his hands busy while Erik scanned the bulletin board on the left wall. Charles almost dropped a cheesecake when he suddenly spoke: “Emma hates me.”

 

“Sorry?”

 

Erik turned and grinned. “Emma Frost hates me. Thank you.”

 

“You’re...welcome?”

 

The grin only widened. Charles suppressed a shiver.

 

“Dare I ask what happened?”

 

“Oh, the usual,” Erik meandered to the counter, hands in his pockets with the most Devil-may-care expression painted on his features that Charles had ever seen. “It arrived on time, she tracked me down and threw it in my face. Excellent fondant, by the way. My compliments to the baker.”

 

Charles blinked. “She _what_?”

 

“Threw it in my face,” Erik repeated patiently. “Very good aim, that woman. If I’d sent anything denser than a sponge, she may have actually killed me.”

 

“What did you do?”

 

“Ate what was left, of course.”

 

Charles couldn’t bite back an astounded chuckle “Well, you’re certainly made of sterner stuff than I.”

 

“Have you had the misfortune of having her as a tutor?”

 

“Thankfully not. I’ve heard enough, though.” Erik’s lips twitched. “How do you know her, anyway?”

 

“Long story,” he replied after a pause. “I could tell you sometime, if you want. Friday?”

 

Charles’ brain, humming like an overworked 90’s computer monitor, spluttered and froze. “Uh,” he stuttered, “what about Friday?”

 

“Are you free on Friday? You know, for a date?”

 

 _Well, then_ , a small part of Charles remarked, _slap my ass and call me a heterosexual._ “You want to take me on a date?”

 

Erik’s face fell. “ _Scheiße_. Are you - I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

 

“Oh, no! No! _I like men_ !” Charles interjected, louder than intended. A stray student, sleepily ambling past the bakery, jumped. Charles shot them an apologetic glance before returning to Erik’s relieved expression. “I like men. And you’re a man. A gorgeous man. A very, er,” he reached over and poked Erik’s arm, “ _fit_ man.”

 

Charles had never wanted to melt into the ground any more than he did in that moment.

 

That strange look that appeared yesterday bloomed again on Erik’s features; as soon as Charles noticed it, his eyes cleared. “Thank you?”

 

“You’re welcome,” Charles muttered, cheeks burning. This wasn’t how he imagined being asked out - not that he fantasised about this on the bus, of course. If she were here, Raven would tell him to -

 

_Raven._

 

Hellfire.

 

Sometimes, Charles wished he was a little less loyal.

 

“I’m so sorry, my friend, but I just remembered I have a prior engagement. Could we possibly reschedule?”

 

It was a testament to Erik’s character that he did not drop his eyes from Charles’. “No problem,” he said breezily, plucking his phone from his jeans pocket. “Thursday?”

 

Charles sighed. “Late lecture,” he said apologetically. “Wednesday?”

 

“Appointment,” he retorted after consulting his phone. “What are you doing on Friday anyway?”

 

And with the approximate force of a freight train, Charles had his light-bulb moment. “There’s a trivia night at Hellfire Club,” he blurted, “for HIV funding. You could come? With me?”

 

Amazingly, Erik missed the double entendre. There must be a God after all. “Hellfire on Broadway?” he asked, suddenly serious. Charles nodded. Erik took a second to reflect, his eyebrows drawn tight. Charles had the most ridiculous urge to ask him to bend down so he could smooth the frown lines away. “Alright,” he finally acquiesced.

 

“Alright?”

 

“Alright.”

 

“Alright.”

 

They stared at each other, caught in a spider’s web of tension, until Charles began to laugh. It wasn’t long before Erik was caught in his stride, stifling his amusement between pressed lips and an awkward rub of his neck. Not to get ahead of himself, but Charles thought that was a sound he could get used to hearing.

 

A gaggle of professors, deep in conversation, ambled their way out of the rain and shattered the atmosphere. With that Erik smiled tightly and made for the door, giving one stilted wave as he disappeared into the shower.

 

It was only when the customers left did Charles realise he hadn’t asked for Erik’s number.

 


	3. Application of Queer Theory

Charles had to hand this one to Raven - Facebook was a godsend.

 

Erik Lehnsherr (twenty-three, German, engineering student, a black and white beach landscape in lieu of a profile picture) was apparently friends with Raven - which wasn’t saying a lot, considering Raven was friends with practically everyone on campus. His timeline was sparse, only going back three years. It was probably a saving grace; God knows how many cringey high school selfies Charles had in the backlogs of his account.

 

There was one tagged photo of Erik, however. Someone called Magda had included him in an album documenting a Hannukah party in 2013, and had Charles not waved his mouse about the image he wouldn’t have recognised Erik. He was - _small_ , for lack of a better word. Standing behind a large girl he presumed was Magda, Erik looked slight and nervous, folding into himself while the other party-goers grinned at the camera. If Charles squinted, he could tell Erik’s face was slimmer, hair styled differently, frame a little softer and curved than what he’d seen in the bakery.

 

This was important, somehow, this tiny slice of Erik’s history.

 

Charles hastily clicked ‘add friend’ and shut his laptop.

 

This was something he wasn’t meant to see.

 

* * *

 

The week melted together until, quite suddenly and rudely, Charles was being pestered with texts from Raven reminding him about the party that night. He hadn’t heard from her for days owing to preparations for said party, although privately Charles thought Irene didn’t need that much help making bingo cards. Maybe his sister had more game than he realised.

 

Fumbling with his phone to avoid suspicion from his lecturer, Charles opened Facebook and shot a hasty message to Erik, who’d only accepted his friend request yesterday morning. He’d apologised, a curt acknowledgement that he didn’t check social media on the regular. Charles had quirked his lips when he read that; Erik and Raven’s French partner would get along splendidly. It was a nice thought, but the only matchmaking Charles was interested in was between him and the still elusive engineering student who was, miraculously, online.

 

_ERIK LEHNSHERR  
I won’t be able to make it. Sorry. _

 

All the breath in Charles’ lungs was forced from him in one blow.

 

 _CHARLES XAVIER_   
_That’s perfectly alright! :)_

 

Erik started typing, then abruptly stopped. Then started once more. Then stopped. Charles was getting rather sick of those little grey dots, truth be told.

 

There was no response for some time. Reluctantly Charles focused back on his lecture, hand curled around the phone in his pocket like a lifeline. Usually Charles would be enamoured with the topic - a specific study into variations of the human genome, the kind of thing he’d gladly spend hours talking someone’s ear off about - but the presentation slides could have been written in Russian for all he comprehended.

 

His phone buzzed. It wouldn’t be a hyperbole to say Charles’ heart stopped for a second.

 

 _ERIK LEHNSHERR_   
_What do you know about Sebastian Shaw?_

 

That wasn’t quite the response he expected, but, alright, it was better than nothing.

 

 _CHARLES XAVIER_   
_Never heard of him._

 

 _ERIK LEHNSHERR_   
_He owns Hellfire._

 

A quick Google search confirmed Erik’s claim and, from the look of things, it wasn’t strange for Charles to be unaware of Shaw’s presence. The man had one mention on the Hellfire website and another in the local news for its opening in 2010. His thumbs were poised to reply when -

 

 _ERIK LEHNSHERR_   
_Forget it._

 

And just like that, the green dot beside his name winked out of existence, leaving Charles with the impression a door had been slammed in his face.

 

The girl seated beside him leaned over. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she whispered, gesturing to the complex diagram on screen.

 

Charles stared at his phone. “No idea.”

 

* * *

 

The morning after Charles had been shot, Raven drove up from New York in record time and threatened a nurse with her nail clippers until she was allowed access to his room. Charles was unconscious at the time, of course, recovering from major surgery, but finding out later that his sister had sat by his bedside for all that time almost put a positive spin on the experience.

 

Almost. He was still shot in the fucking spine.

 

When he woke she was in the middle of babbling to him like she did when she was younger - an extended, nonsensical monologue she used to murmur in his ear when his step-father’s voice rose from the next room. For the briefest moment Charles believed he was twelve again and lying in the ER, ready to tell the doctors that his broken arm was just from being clumsy. Raven’s hands, flighty as spring sparrows, flickered in and out of his blurred vision. She was never allowed to visit him when he had one of his accidents.

 

“- told him: ‘look, Hank, I get that you’re having a crisis over your sexuality, and you’re totally entitled to that, but the fact is I’m a _woman_ and calling me ‘biological male’ is a dick move’. Moral of the story? Cis guys are the worst. No offense.”

 

Charles turned to face her. “None taken, love,” he croaked with a weak attempt at a smile. Raven’s full lips parted in surprise and she launched herself at him, her kinky hair - blue at the time - getting in his mouth. Despite the crushing grip she had on his ribs he laughed, hands coming to rest on the nape of her neck.

 

“You’re alive,” she breathed against his chest, “Jesus fucking Christ, Charles, _you’re alive_.” She raised her head and sure enough her eyes were watering. “I never should have let your dumb ass live alone.”

 

Charles bit his tongue to stop himself from reasserting that he was, in fact, the elder sibling. Before Raven could continue a nurse entered, checked his vitals and ruined the relieved atmosphere by asking if he could feel his legs.

 

The bullet hadn’t directly hit his lumbar (“You lucky motherfucker,” Raven interjected) but had caused enough damage to partially paralyse him past his waist. There was the occasional spasm of feeling, a fragile sensation that gave Charles a spoonful of hope, and one of the nurses fed his optimism, rabbiting on about miracle recoveries while fixing his catheter. The doctors, on the other hand, had a far more realistic lens: the paraplegia was permanent. Charles wouldn’t walk again.

 

One afternoon he tossed aside the gossip rag Raven had bought from the newsagency downstairs and stared at her until she looked up. “Anal,” he announced.

 

Her eyebrows raised. “What?”

 

“Anal. How am I going to -” he fluttered a hand over his nether regions. Despite her mouth twisting into a moue of distaste at the thought, she reached across the bedside table and searched through a bundle of pamphlets.

 

“Here,” she said, thrusting one at him. _Sexual Relations After Paralysis_ was blazoned across the top in glaring yellow. “Doctor Reyes was going to bring it up later. She thought you wouldn’t want to know about that til you, y’know, were actually released from hospital.” She suddenly groaned. “Oh my God, Charles, please don’t tell me you’re cruising the guy with the burn victim in 11B.”

 

Charles hummed, his head buried in a section on viagra. “Armando is lovely, but very much engaged to that man who visited yesterday - I think his name was Alex? Anyway, like I said, lovely, but off the market.”

 

Raven rolled her eyes. “Okay, so not 11B,” she said, “but seriously, don’t go hunting for dick when you still pee through a tube.”

 

“I’m not intending to,” Charles sniffed, clutching the pamphlet to his chest. “I’m just - researching. Gathering information. Making informed choices. Finding out my options, just in case - well, yes. Just in case.”

 

There was a moment of thin silence stretched between them until Raven sighed. “You’re scared this is going to ruin your sex life.” It wasn’t a question.

 

“I thought you were my sister, not some amateur armchair psychologist,” he snapped.

 

“Foster sister,” she clapped back, “and that entitles me to tell you when you’re being an idiot.”

 

“Jesus Christ - I’m bloody paralysed, Raven, have some decorum!”

 

“No, I won’t, ‘cause you’d hate me for treating you like a child.” She reached over and took his hand in hers, careful not to jostle his IV line. “Now listen here, you sad sack of mayonnaise: you can either mope around and impose a vow of chastity on the rest of your life, or you can realise that this _isn’t_ the end of the world and think about things differently. You’re a good guy, Charles. There are people out there who’d be lucky to have you. If they have an issue with your shit, they aren’t worth a second of your time and you can absolutely ask me to beat them up.”

 

She sat back, crossed her legs, and beamed.

 

Charles’ lips, still hanging open, wobbled. “I’m sorry, _did you just call me a sack of mayonnaise_?”

 

* * *

 

 

Months of physio and cancelled therapy appointments later, Charles was considering becoming a hermit.

 

“Nope, you’re coming to Hellfire,” Raven insisted, leant across the their shared bathroom sink to lather on mascara. “You promised.”

 

Charles picked at the vinyl of his armrest. “But-”

 

“No buts, Charles. This is going to be fun.”

“Fun,” Charles snorted, “isn’t usually defined by watching your sister’s tongue conduct a search of Irene Adler’s tonsils.”

 

Raven shut her makeup kit with a sharp click and turned to face him fully. She really did look gorgeous, eyeliner wings crisper than a wad of fresh Benjamins, but in that moment Charles feared she might cut him with them. “You know this is more than that,” she retorted. “We’re raising money and having a good time. It’s got you written all over it.”

 

 _It has the old me written all over it_ , Charles thought to himself. “I’m not feeling well, Raven.”

 

“Bullshit. You were fine this morning. Something’s happened.” She opened the top-most cupboard and took out her hormones, prepping the needle with ease. “So either tell me, or be that one asshole in the club who’s the human embodiment of the rain cloud emoji.”

 

They both knew she wouldn’t quit ‘til she had an answer. It was one of the reasons Charles loved her so much. In that instance, however: “Get fucked.”

 

Raven didn’t even look up. “I’m counting on it.”

 

“I had a date,” he admitted in a rush, “and he cancelled. Okay? I finally got a date with the guy from the bakery and he cancelled on me.” He sent her a pointed look. “I’ll survive. I just - don’t want to go out right now.”

 

“Oh, Charles,” Raven threw out her hypodermic and knelt in front of him. Her hands, broad and warm, anchored Charles’ own. For the briefest of seconds, he almost felt okay. “I’m so sorry.”

 

Charles met her wide eyes. “Does this mean I can stay home?”

 

She smiled with all the sympathy of a brick. “Not at all, bitch.”

 


	4. Contextual Gossip and Human Relations

It was an odd sensation, going into a club without having fucked at least three people in sight. The pubs and bars and illicit little dens Charles frequented at Harvard were sprinkled with old flings who barely noticed him on their own journeys to getting smashed. Rolling into Hellfire and not knowing how the lady to his left liked to be eaten out was a change.

 

What was also a change was the bouncer not even blinking an eye at his chair and instead focusing his attention at hitting on Raven.

 

“And who is this, богиня?” he said in a throaty, booming voice as they approached. Raven chuckled and began to ramble in rapid-fire Russian, so quick that Charles tuned out. For all people called him a genius, he believed the real praise should be handed to his sister. It takes more than a handful of good mnemonics to learn five languages by the age of twenty-one, after all.

 

As Raven continued to chat with the bouncer, Charles took in the club in its emptied entirety. Hellfire went for some sixties nostalgia, all psychedelic wallpaper and reflective surfaces. Hell, the bar itself was chrome. Without the inevitable strobe lights and pulsating bodies it almost felt like an abandoned gentleman’s club, frozen in time. Charles wheeled himself further into the belly of the beast, relieved that Raven was telling the truth when she said the place was accessible. If he were honest with himself, that was one of the reasons he’d been so staunch against going out as of late - he was a veteran of the club scene and knew what kind of screwy locations they sometimes nestled in.

 

Beside the bar he spotted Irene talking to a girl who couldn’t be more than seventeen, her standoffish guide dog Destiny laying at her feet. Her ears perked up as Charles approached, taking in the sight of him before nudging Irene with her head.

 

Irene’s head tilted and, for the briefest of moments, Charles swore she was staring right at him. “Charles,” she said, quiet enough for anyone around her to lean closer in rapture. “Nice to see you.” The girl broke into a coughing fit to cover her sudden giggle and Irene’s lips quirked. “You’re free to go, Rogue. Tell Logan I’ll send him those resource PDFs tomorrow morning.”

 

“Sure thing,” Rogue replied, her voice long and syrupy. Charles smiled as she winked at him and bailed, skipping out the club he wasn’t entirely sure she was legally allowed to enter.

 

“She’s of age,” Irene interjected as if reading his mind. “I do talks at GSA’s in the county and she wanted to help out with tonight. She can’t stay, though. Hot date.” She abruptly paused. “You just got dumped.”

 

Charles’ heart almost stopped. “What?”

 

“You,” she gestured in his vague direction, “got your ass dumped.”

 

“How do you know that?” Charles hissed. Technically she wasn’t right but, well, semantics. Charles felt like he’d just been dumped.

 

Irene nudged her sunglasses with what could have deliberately been her middle finger. “Raven texted me. Said you were in a strop over some boy.”

 

“He’s not a _boy_ , he’s a _man_ , and - hold on, Raven texted you?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“My sister texted you about my relationship issues?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Charles ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “That is some atrocious breach of privacy,” he warned. “Welcome to the family.”

 

It was rare for Irene to be caught off-guard. She parted her lips, no doubt about to interrogate him for turning the tables for once, but Raven called out and her features re-arranged themselves into a pleasant smile. Charles would call it sappy, except Irene didn’t do sappy. She’d have his head for even thinking that.

 

Charles took the opportunity and fled, finding others he knew and helping with the set-up. Despite the distraction and chatter, Irene’s words curdled in his head. _You just got dumped. You - Charles Xavier, affectionately crowned the Biggest Slut On Campus in your very first year of college - have been rejected by the most enigmatic, frustrating and beautiful man you’ve ever met. So much for going back to normal._

 

He checked his phone in self-flagellation. No new notifications; just a grey dot beside Erik’s name and the sinking feeling Charles should get used to the sight.

 

* * *

 

 

By nine, Charles had three shots of tequila behind him and managed to ignore his heartbreak by handing out flavoured condoms and rattling a donation bucket in the corner. By ten, there was no such thing as an organised trivia night, so Irene took her materials and stowed them away so they could all get wasted in peace.

 

By eleven, Charles was more drunk than he cared to admit, although thankfully not at the weepy stage just yet - he was still laughing with some of his and Raven’s friends as they played an extremely sloppy game of truth or dare.

 

“Alright, Hank’s turn!” Sean bellowed, smacking his hand on the table and spraying vodka across the surface. Hank, tucked between his sister and Angel, bit his lip and straightened his glasses.

 

“Go for it,” he said, his mutter barely audible over the throbbing bass. Sean grinned broadly, his eyes manic and pupils dilated under the sporadic lighting.

 

“Truth or dare?”

 

“Uh, truth?”

 

“How many times have you taken it up the ass?”

 

Hank immediately flushed and squirmed. “I-I’ve changed my mind. Dare.”

 

“No changesies, Henry,” Sean sung, reaching across to tap Hank on the nose. “C’mon, man. This is a _safe space_.” His imitation of Raven’s oft-uttered meeting opener earned a sharp glare from its owner, but Sean didn’t noticed. Humiliating Hank seemed to be his occupation of the night, and from the shade of Hank’s skin, he was succeeding.

 

Charles frowned. “Really now, Sean, let him choose dare.”

 

“Nuh-uh,” Sean insisted, shaking his head to hard Charles received a mouthful of musty ginger hair. “You gotta.”

 

“Sean-”

 

“You’re no fun, Charlie,” he pouted, and Charles was suddenly quite aware it was the ecstasy talking. Sean knew how much he hated that nickname - he knew who used it and twisted it and left him on a cliff’s edge every time some well-to-do stranger tried to be nice to him. Sober Sean would never call him that, not to say anything about egging Hank this far.

 

Raven sent him an alarmed look but Charles waved her off. “Hank, would you like to join me for a bit of fresh air? It’s getting rather stuffy in here.”

 

Hank nodded vigorously and squeezed out of their booth, his eyes preternaturally wide and glossy. Poor guy. He and Charles were still at an awkward stage between passing familiarity and genuine friendship which Charles attributed to Hank’s previous relationship with Raven and his own self-imposed social isolation. In spite of that Hank had disclosed his questioning asexuality to him, and Charles felt it was some testament to his reliability that he was explicitly told.

 

An icy gale was blowing something fierce outside but Charles barely noticed. Hank hunched his shoulders and squeezed into a free spot, far enough from the crowds to breathe but close enough to the outdoor heaters to retain feeling in his fingers. He and Charles stared at the buzzing street for a minute, content in silence while the city vibrated around them.

 

With a furtive glance back inside, Charles fished a cigarette from his jacket and lit up, ignoring Hank’s pointed look. As a man of science and someone with eyes, of course Charles knew what he was doing wasn’t healthy, but you don’t send a sex addict to a Catholic church without letting them at least fuck the minister. Cold turkey, in Charles’ opinion, was a load of shite.

 

He exhaled slowly, eyes lazily following the cloud of smoke as it dissipated into the night’s air. Nicotine, while hardly Pope Francis in panties, was decent methadone.

 

“So, is it true?” Hank finally asked, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

 

“Is what true?”

 

“The guy. You know, that, uh,” he paused. “Dumped you?”

 

Charles groaned. “Has everyone heard about that?” Hank shrugged, which was as good as screaming his agreement and planting a huge neon sign over Raven. “It’s nothing, Hank. I’m fine.”

 

“‘Fine’ has variable definitions.”

 

“Did you just quote _Star Trek_ at me?”

 

Hank studiously avoided his amused gaze. “Nope.” He scratched the back of his neck, glasses slipping down his nose in a rather endearing way that had he not been hung up on Erik, Charles would have considered flirt-worthy. “And that’s okay. If you don’t want to talk about it. I get it. Sometimes you just really don’t want to discuss this kind of thing. But you’re - hey, Charles, you’re a good guy, yeah? And if whoever this is can’t see that, then it’s his loss, you know? His problems are his. You deserve better anyway. I just - I figured - yeah. You’re a good guy.”

 

He sucked in a breath and pointedly stared at the sidewalk in front of him. Charles gaped. This was the longest collection of words Hank had ever said to him outside an academic context and, frankly, Charles’ chest felt lighter on hearing them.

 

A dazed grin broke over his face. “Thank you, my friend,” he said sincerely, clumsily patting Hank’s elbow. Hank blushed again, thankfully smiling too. In some context, this probably counted as a friendship level up.

 

They would have gained the extra XP had Erik not slipped out of the mass of partygoers beside them and cleared his throat.

 

Charles choked on his inhale, throat burning and eyes watering. “Erik!” he spluttered, “What - I thought you weren’t-”

 

Erik shifted awkwardly. He was dressed as he usually was - casual and effortlessly, frustratingly attractive - but if Charles tilted his head he caught the slightest notes of some spicy cologne. “I changed my mind,” he mumbled. With a shrewd glance at Hank, he added, “Can I speak to you? Alone?”

 

Hank, bless his avoidant personality, immediately said his farewells to Charles and melted back into the club. His space was quickly filled with Erik, who under any other circumstance Charles would find absolutely irresistible. Except, he noted with alarm, he was shaking. There was an aura to him Charles had never seen before - granted, they’d only had a handful of in-person conversations, but in every one of them Erik gave off an impregnable air. To have that pierced, his eyes avoiding Charles’, tasted sour.

 

“I’m sorry,” Erik blurted the moment Hank had disappeared from sight. “For earlier. On Facebook. I’m not really - I mean, I haven’t -” He grunted in frustration, fists balled in his jacket pockets. Charles reached over and squeezed his forearm.

 

“It’s quite alright, my friend,” he assured. Still, Erik frowned. “Consider it forgotten. Are you alright?”

 

Erik looked at him shrewdly. “Has anyone ever told you you’re far too persistent for your own good?”

 

“My sister, daily. And that’s not an answer.”

 

“Smartass,” he muttered. Charles grinned in response, but didn’t take the bait. Erik sighed and ran a hand over his face, Hellfire’s sign highlighting the shadows under his eyes, deep and lasting. The words on his lips, whatever they were, were anchored by dozens of sleepless nights. Charles sat straighter in his chair, hoping to catch Erik’s eyes as they roved listless over the street.

 

In the back of his mind, with a quiet kind of acceptance, he realised it didn’t matter if Erik ended up telling him what was wrong. While he was the prying asshole Raven frequently complained about, there was something in Erik - a solidness, a ceaseless sunlight - that he was content to wait in. Despite years of sticking his nose into other people’s dirty laundry, he could wait for Erik.

 

 _Shit_ , he thought belatedly, _I really do like him_.

 

Erik snagged his gaze and took a deep breath. “I’m -”

  
“Ruth?”

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/mutantmeme)


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